


Alone Time

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Harkness does not believe in self denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone Time

**Author's Note:**

> Set between The Doctor Dances and Boom Town.
> 
> Written for the sizeofthatthing kinkmeme. Prompt: _Jack, masturbation. Not thinking about anyone in particular, just enjoying/teasing himself._

Jack Harkness does not believe in self denial. As far as he's concerned, regular sex is as basic a need as sleeping or eating. He's happy to indulge with just about anyone who's interested, and someone's usually interested. 

Which makes his recent dry spell all the more frustrating. It's been a lot longer than he's used to, especially with such attractive travelling companions as the Doctor and Rose. When the two of them are in the room, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife. They aren't sleeping together, not yet, though to his eye it seems inevitable. He's not really sure what they're waiting for, but whatever's going on between them, it seems so delicate and private that he's unwilling to intrude. Maybe, when they've worked things out, there will be a place for him there, too. He hopes so. 

But for now, travelling with the two of them, he's been practically celibate. He hasn't been with a partner since that delightful time on Isnarrion, when the crown princess slipped him a note during the banquet indicating in no uncertain terms that she'd be pleased to find him in her chamber at midnight. And that was over a month ago. 

His body still has needs, of course. He's made a habit of taking care of that in the shower; it's quick and easy, if a little perfunctory. 

It isn't enough. Tonight, he wasn't able to concentrate on whatever terrible film the Doctor and Rose had been watching; instead he'd been keenly aware of Rose's hand on the Doctor's arm, the way he leaned toward her when he laughed. Her wide smile, the warmth in his pale blue eyes. He'd been half hard the whole damned time, but at least they'd been too engrossed to notice. He excused himself early, had a quick, cool shower, dressed in loose flannel pyjama bottoms, and now? Now he's alone in his room, ready to make up for all those weeks of neglect. There's nothing to interrupt him, nowhere that needs running to (or from). He can take his time. 

He begins by lying down, cupping his palm over the soft bulge in his pyjama bottoms. It doesn't stay soft for very long, of course. A twitch, a warm stirring, and he rubs his palm in slow, encouraging circles as the shape beneath the fabric grows more distinct. Soon he has a full sized erection tenting his pyjamas; he grips it through the flannel, dragging his hand down its length. What would the Doctor and Rose think if they saw him like this? He puts the thought out of his mind. He needs to take care of this now, and fantasizing about his companions won't help him stop getting a hard-on every time he _looks_ at his companions. 

He slips his hand into his pyjamas and takes hold of his cock, stroking slowly. "Oh, yeah," he groans, letting himself get into it. His cock twitches at the sound. He cups his other hand around the end of his cock, over his pyjamas, and jerks himself into it steadily, until dampness begins to seep through the flannel. 

He's tempted to finish like this, shooting right into the flannel, but he's not ready for it to be over yet. After all, he's got plenty of time. He hooks his thumbs under his elastic waistband and slides it down. He's not wearing pants underneath, of course, and his thick, flushed cock stands up straight as it's freed from the confines of his pyjamas. He's always been rather proud of his cock. It's an attractive specimen, substantial, well proportioned, if he does say so himself. And he does, being something of an expert. He skims his fingers over the surface; it's warm, firm, throbbing slightly. Oh, this is going to be good. He's needed this. 

He wraps his hand loosely around his shaft and pulls up, comes back down. Light, slow, enough to feel good but not enough to get him off too soon. Up and down, nice and easy. He matches his breathing to the rhythm of his hand, until it's almost a meditation. In and out, up and down. So relaxed, except for his taut, straining cock. Gradually, distantly, the need for resolution begins to stir, but he dismisses the urge to squeeze harder, stroke faster. He just watches his hand move, steady, unhurried, and lets the sensations wash over him. Lets himself enjoy every moment of it. 

He did remember to lock the door, didn't he? What if the Doctor... _no_. He schools his breathing, keeps his hand loose, stays in the moment. There's nothing but him and the thick, hard shaft in his hand. He couldn't stop stroking it now if he wanted to. The gleam of moisture at the tip becomes a slow, warm trickle. He changes his grip briefly to spread the slickness around. The fluid turns sticky as it dries, but soon another drop comes. Before long, he's leaking steadily. His hand moves the tiniest bit faster. 

It would be so easy to finish himself off right now. He groans, head tossing against his pillow, and tries to wait for it to happen on its own. He's getting so close. With his free hand, he cups his balls, feels how tight and ready they are, tucked up against his body. He draws gently downward on them. Oh, god, _now_ , he needs it _now_. His cock is rock hard, as achingly, desperately full as it has ever been in his life, and he just needs to roll over and thrust against the mattress, to _fuck_ something. It wouldn't take two strokes for him to explode. 

The muscles of his thighs and buttocks twitch, tense, but he forces himself not to thrust into his hand. Steady, steady. He's moaning, he can't stop, and here it comes, the point of no return. He doesn't try to hold back, doesn't rush it, just _waits_ \- 

And then it happens. His cock gives a sudden jerk in his hand, throbs, and there is no stopping it. He closes his hand tightly around himself and manages to pump once, hard, before thick white fluid is spurting onto the sheets. Pleasure explodes through him, and he jerks himself off roughly, thoroughly, not stopping until he is utterly emptied.

It's a long time before he catches his breath. He hasn't felt this good in... He can't remember the last time he felt this good. Sleep rises to engulf him, but he's vaguely aware that he really needs to clean up first. With a groan, he stumbles to the en-suite for a towel. There are, he recalls, fresh sheets in the wardrobe. He's made quite a mess, he realizes with a touch of embarrassment, but that's all right; he's always taken pride in his partners' enjoyment, and he feels a certain satisfaction at the evidence of his own. 

Once the sheets have been replaced, he sprawls on the bed with a weary sigh. "Was it good for you, too?" he says aloud. He glances down at himself—limp, spent, sated—and grins. "We'll have to do it again sometime." 

And if he seems extra relaxed and chipper in the morning, well, neither of his companions remark upon it.


End file.
